The Plight Before Christmas(79)

“Great,” I mutter, knowing something must have triggered Serena in the last hour as we all haul ourselves out the door. Thatch unlocks their idling SUV as we all pile in, the cabin already warm due to Thatch’s consideration. Serena has no idea how lucky she is to have someone willing to brave the cold to ensure she’s warm—to open the impossible pickle jar, carry the bulk of the heavy load. Little things men do to care for their women. Things that are taken for granted over time by those in a relationship. Things that make a single girl envious. I guarantee a week without Thatch would remind Serena just how much she relies on him—of how those little things add up. In truth, it goes both ways, and Thatch would be just as lost without her.

Eli and I stare out of our respective windows for the first few minutes of the drive—which would be fine if Serena and Thatch were speaking to fill the void. Eli pulls out his cell and begins typing away on his phone, grinning when a return text message comes in. He hasn’t so much as looked at me since our run-in this morning. It seems I don’t exist for the moment—which I decided this morning was for the best. Instead of mulling over the ancient dead horse, I try to thaw some of the inch-thick ice between Thatch and Serena.

“How are things at work, Thatch?”

“The usual. Nothing interesting. Got a long list of projects lined up next spring, but I can’t say I’m not happy about the downtime.”

“That’s so awesome. I’m proud of you.”

His grin is genuine. “Thanks, sis.”

One day, hopefully in the not-so-distant future, I plan on charging my brother-in-law with the task of building my dream home.

“What about you, sis? How’s the admin side going?”

“A nightmare this past month,” she relays quickly. “It’s like he’s forgotten everything I taught him.”

Thatch glares at the side of her head as my stomach sinks. More deafening silence ensues as I glance over at Eli when his phone pings.

“Hot date?” I loathe the drip of sarcasm in my tone.

Oh, come on, Whitney!

“Not my type.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“Married with two kids,” he replies, briefly darting his eyes to me.

“What is your type, Eli?” Serena asks.

Eli closes out his screen and pockets his phone. “Not sure. These days, I’m too busy to put much thought into it.”

“Yeah, I can see that about you,” Serena answers dryly.

“Do you have any limitations today?” Thatch scolds her. “Is anyone safe?”

“I just asked a question,” Serena defends innocently.

“With the same bitchy tone.”

“Fine, I’ll shut up.” Serena crosses her arms, glaring out of the windshield.

“Come on, guys,” I project my voice and nod toward Eli. “We’ve got company.”

“Sorry, man,” Thatch apologizes as Eli glares at the side of my head.

“I’m fine,” Eli assures, “Don’t worry about me.”

“Actually, he’s just the type to get extremely nervous in domestic situations such as these. It’s a miracle he’s made it this long and hasn’t Shawshanked his way out, tunneling himself into the mountains.”

“Hey,” he whispers venomously, and I turn to face him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” I shrug. “It’s the truth. When things get sticky, you bail.”

His jaw ticks as his stare hardens immeasurably.

“Jesus, sis, don’t mimic bad behavior,” Thatch says in Eli’s defense.

“I’m not, and it doesn’t compare. We aren’t a couple,” I declare.

“Could have fooled the eleven other people you’re rooming with,” Thatch spouts, eyeing me pointedly. He lifts a brow as I narrow my eyes at him before averting his back to the road. Just as he does, we hydroplane on a patch of ice.

“Shit,” Thatch says, attempting to correct the wheel as Serena freaks, gripping the ‘oh shit’ handle while barking at Thatch.

“That’s not helping,” I snap at Serena as Thatch recovers control of the car, again shooting a glare in Serena’s direction before focusing back on the road.

So, this is hell.




Once at the superstore, we decided it was best to divide and conquer. Eli texted us each a part of the list, and wordlessly, we all separated, grabbing a cart. Determined not to let the glare Eli torpedoed my way screw with my mojo, I hum along to the music playing over the loudspeakers. I sidestep a man minding a cart with a screaming toddler—he glances over at me as I pass, expression screaming, “help me,” as his wife sorts through a pajama rack. As expected, mere days before Christmas, the store is in utter and complete chaos as people zoom through aisles as if they’re in racing lanes—their expressions filled with panic. Desperation leaks from others who stand side by side frantically sorting through sale bins, occasionally glancing over at each other with scathing side-eyes.

In other words, it looks a lot like Christmas.

Nothing new. Just humanity taking another solid hit during a time we’re supposed to be praying for peace on earth while wishing goodwill toward our fellow men.

With my portion of Mom’s list fulfilled and confident I’ve done my own Christmas shopping justice, I breeze through the aisles as one-woman mouths “bitch” to the back of another after she purposely snatched a stocking stuffer she was reaching for from a shelf.